


Storm

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Shipping words [7]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 13:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17899208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Prompto never did like when mother nature lost her temper, when she’d send in a rush of dark clouds and charged, clean air right before the sky ripped itself wide open and bellowed down at the souls below.





	Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MathClassWarfare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathClassWarfare/gifts).



> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.

He never did like when mother nature lost her temper, when she'd send in a rush of dark clouds and charged, clean air right before the sky ripped itself wide open and bellowed down at the souls below.  He never did like the frantic dash through busy streets and pelting through traffic and irate drivers blaring their horns at him all in an effort to beat the rain before it chilled him to the bone and robbed his body of any memory of warmth.  He never did like collapsing through his front door only to realise the gas had run out again and he'd be stuck with no heating until his parents got back, a shower more frigid than the fat drops flooding the streets.  There were never enough towels to rub himself dry, never enough blankets to shiver in while the wind howled and rattled the windows, never enough layers to bury himself under when lightning flashes and thunder roared and half-forgotten memories and nightmares loomed in his mind like desperate, starving wolves.

He's always been shit scared of weather taking a turn for the worst, he's always had an instinctive reason to duck and run for cover.   _Always_.  And that's not something he can just snap his fingers and change, even when it comes to light that mother nature doesn't do anything with the weather so much as Ramuh, the  _literal god of lightning,_ does.

Maybe he should hate the Astral for all those nights in his childhood with too many screams locked up in his throat and not enough air in his lungs and his Mum unable to rock him fast enough to quiet the frantic drum of his heart against his ribs, trying to escape through them.  Maybe he should curse and yell and rage and waste his bullets trying to make the Astral feel even an  _inkling_ of the horror inflicted on him as a kid when the world was a big nasty place for someone too small to understand it all.  Maybe he should take a leaf out of the weather's book and  _let it all out_ in one mighty, gusting, howling lash that leaves everyone quaking in their boots.

And  _maybe_ he should run from Noctis when his eyes go red as a daemon's, all hellfire and fury as his mouth twists into a snarling slash full of too many teeth.  When he throws his blade aside, so careless, so foolish, Gladio's gonna rip him a new one for  _days_ for that one.  When he rocks upright and takes one hitching step away from Prompto's side, another, and another, ignoring the fresh pulse of blood decorating his injured calf in favour of - what, exactly?

_"Noct!  What the hell are you doing?"_ Not enough air in his lungs to shout, it comes out a pitiful gasp instead as he blinks the rain from his eyes and swipes the back of his hand over them to get them clear enough to pick off a target, save Noctis from being swarmed and overwhelmed.  He might be down but he's not out, not  _yet_ , and he's not letting Noctis march off on a suicide mission against Niflheim's infantry so long as there's breath left in his body.

Noctis doesn't call on the Armiger but Prompto feels  _it_ anyway.  A vibration deep in his bones, a twisting roil in his gut, static crackling along his skin and standing his hair on end, and Noctis yells.  A raw-throated, vicious thing.  A challenge,  _defiant_ , arms thrown wide at his sides and fingers splayed towards the heavens as they churn an inky black, summer shower transforming into something  _more_ before Prompto's very eyes.   _This_ is the power of Kings, he thinks, breath ripped from him in an instant as the bond linking them all to Noctis and his magic lights up like a firework display,  _this_ is their strength, the secret in their blood, the reason they've been able to conquer so much land over the centuries and  _keep_ it for so long.

It's war and chaos contained and set loose on a single person's whim.  It's the bolts of lightning searing across Noct's skin in cracks of white and cleaving through enemy ranks and they look like tree branches but they're  _so much worse_.  It's the twist and twirl of Noct's body as the magic moves him, shapes him, warps him along its threads until he's a phantom passing through the ranks with every boom of thunder at ground level, leaving wreckage and death and smoking remains in his wake.  It's Noctis, master of none, standing tall on his own and carving a name for himself in the blood of his enemies, their ranks, their memories, their  _history_.  He leaves none untouched, none to tell the tale except for whatever pilots the airship above, only turns his back when there's no more robotic wailing or sparking parts moving around.

He returns to Prompto then on unsteady footsteps, weaving as though drunk, eyes back to their gorgeous blue but dazed and far away like he's gone someplace Prompto can't follow.  His hands are clumsy when they pat him over and pour potions over his wounds,  _scalding_ when Prompto catches them in his own and brings them to his chest, lays them where his heart beats quick and strong.

"I'm alright, Noct," he rasps, and despite the close call with death and the wolves circling him as they ever do when foul weather comes calling, he means it.  He  _means_ it.  He's alright, even in the middle of a storm.

It's  _Noct's_ , and so he knows there's nothing to fear.  He's safe.


End file.
